


Nemo Vir Est Qui Mundum Non Reddat Meliorem

by writteninhaste



Category: Kingdom of Heaven (2005), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Abortion, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:16:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninhaste/pseuds/writteninhaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Jerusalem, you are not what you are born but what you have it in yourself to be. A kingdom of conscience, of peace instead of war, love instead of hate. That is what lies at the end of a crusade. A kingdom of heaven.</p><p>Five hundred years after the boat bore Arthur to Avalon, Merlin believes he has found Arthur again in the Holy Land. But history never occurs the same way twice, and there is no such thing as happily ever after…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nemo Vir Est Qui Mundum Non Reddat Meliorem

In the year 987 Anno Domini, Emrys and Fate played a game of chance. Odds, Merlin continued on as he was – constantly shifting face and identity to hide the fact that he was eternally young, and never changed. Evens, Merlin shucked off his immortal coil and agreed to one cycle of reincarnation. He would not be told why; he would not be told when – it would simply happen. Merlin agreed. And promptly weighted the dice in his favour. He was not about to risk not being there when Arthur needed him.  
  
Unfortunately, because Fate was rather too used to getting her own way (and would allow no-one to cheat her), Merlin lost. And, as many mortals some day learn, Fate is rarely kind.  
  
 **الجنة مملكة**  
  
“Merle.  _Merle_.” The voice was soft, impatient and very close to Muirgheal’s ear.  
  
“Go away, Arnaude.” She whispered. “I’m sleeping.” At least, that is what Muirgheal hoped she had said. Her French was far from fluent and was closer to the dialect spoken by the merchant traders who came to the Holy Land, than Arnaude’s native tongue.   
  
“Yes.” Arnaude agreed. “And if you sleep one more second you will be late to tend my lady and she will have fits.” With a curse to rival those spoken by any mercenary, Muirgheal shot to her feet and scrabbled around for her clothing. Arnaude sighed, helped her friend into her kirtle and then pushed her out of the servants’ quarters with a rueful smile. It was the same every day.  
  
Muirgheal felt she could not be blamed for fumbling her clothing every morning. After all, these past sixteen years aside, she had been male for over five hundred years. Making sure his hair was tucked beneath a veil, Merlin sighed. For all his centuries of existence, he possessed very little knowledge of how to navigate women’s clothing and less still of how to navigate it in a hurry. There were just so many  _layers_. As he walked, he surreptitiously adjusted the belting beneath his breasts. Since the moment his current body had hit puberty, Merlin had wished fervently for his natural form. Being female required far too much work – from clothing, to vanities, to certain monthly essentials; male bodies were easier. As he stumbled over his hem, Merlin resisted the urge to simply hike his skirts above his knees and have done. The last time he had dared to do such a thing he had found himself in disgrace with The Lady. The beating he had received as a result had left him longing for the stocks in Camelot – overly solid vegetables and all.  
  
The muezzin called for the faithful to kneel in prayer as Merlin slipped into the Princess Sibylla’s chambers. Brushing his skirts out of the way, Merlin lit the fire that would take the chill from the morning air. The scent of sandalwood wafted from the hearth, throwing Merlin back to a time, shortly before Arthur’s coronation, when the prince had complained that the fire in his chambers simply made the air thick and smoky. Merlin had taken it upon himself to freshen the air, spelling the logs to release “their most recent scent” in the hopes that the smell of summer trees would lighten the prince’s mood. Unfortunately, a skunk had taken it upon himself to abuse the trees shortly before they had been cut down, and the resulting stench was abominable. It had taken Arthur weeks to forgive Merlin.  
  
A rustle from the bedchamber drew Merlin back to the present. With a whispered word to ensure the fire burnt well, Merlin slipped into his mistress’s chambers. He thanked years of watching Gwen tend to Morgana that meant he had not been as hopeless at waiting on Sibylla as he had first been with Arthur. Though it had taken him a few weeks to get over the awkwardness he felt in helping a woman dress each morning, Merlin found there was not much difference between tending Sibylla and serving Arthur. Nobility were nobility, regardless of time or kingdom. The only notable difference was that Sibylla truly did demand perfect obedience from her servants, rather than simply bemoaning the lack of it.  
  
As Merlin set the lady’s clothes out for the day, he ran his hand across the jewel-tone fabrics. The morning light sank into the silk resulting in a vibrancy – a radiance – to match the regal form they would adorn. Despite what Merlin thought about Sibylla, he could not deny that she was born to be a queen. She would never be kind or merciful – hers would not be a kingdom of love. But it would be one of  _power_. Merlin knew that one day all the strength and might of the crown would be brought to bear upon Jerusalem. He did not need Morgana’s Sight to know Sibylla would die before seeing the kingdom pass from her family’s hands.  
  
The scent of cinnamon – courtesy of the spice bags, laid between the clothes – wafted up into Merlin’s nostrils. The fragrance was sweet and foreign and overrode the lingering scent of the dyes. When Arthur’s clothes were new they had always smelt of piss and madder before acquiring that scent that was uniquely Arthur.   
  
There were times when Merlin thought he would lay Jerusalem to waste if it meant he could smell such things again.  
  
Dragging his thoughts from the centuries past, Merlin poured the princess’s wash-water into the copper basin.  
  
 **الجنة مملكة**  
  
Sibylla was visiting with her son, giving Merlin and Arnaude – who was the child’s nursemaid – a chance to talk. The young woman was watching the little princeling with a sort of fondness mixed with a tinge of exasperation. As she whispered in Merlin’s ear, sweet and kind and so full of love for the world she found herself in, Merlin felt his heart crack – just slightly. It happened more often these days – aware as he was of how things were, how they should be. He still remembered the day when, as a little girl, Muirgheal had woken up in the room she shared with her parents and known that she was not their kin; had known that  _he_  was older than either of them, and that Fate had been most cruel.   
  
Now, as he listened to Arnaude relate to him the gossip from the kitchens, Merlin found himself searching for Gwen’s features in her face. The girl reminded him so much of the memory of the friend he still held dear. And perhaps she was – the soul simply buried so deep within the confines of its new body that Merlin could not reach it. But then again, perhaps it was merely wishful thinking. He saw so many of Uther’s court mirrored in the court he served now. He saw Morgana in Sibylla; Lot of Orkney in her husband Guy de Lusignan. He saw Uther in his ally Raynald de Châtillon; he shivered.   
  
“Merle, are you well?” Arnaude asked, waiting until Merlin had nodded his confirmation, before continuing her hushed monologue. The young woman was unable to wrap her tongue around the Gaelic consonants of the name Merlin wore this cycle, and so had taken simply to addressing him with her own abbreviation. It had taken Merlin months to realise that the other servants chuckled because Merle meant blackbird.  
  
As Sibylla straightened, preparing to leave her son to his lessons, Merlin bid a hasty farewell to Arnaude and resumed his place at Sibylla’s side. The lady spoke momentarily with the boy’s tutors, waited for her son to bow in respect and swept from the room.   
  
“Fetch my veil, and inform the steward I require an escort. I wish to ride into the city.” Sibylla said coolly, staring at some point on the distant horizon. Merlin bobbed a courtesy and moved to obey, trying not to convey his excitement. Sibylla rarely ventured from the palace and Merlin was not at liberty to wander where he chose. The descent into the town would gift Merlin with a rare glimpse of life outside the palace walls. It had been too long since he had heard the earth sing beneath his feet and fingers.   
  
He returned to Sibylla, face already veiled, and assisted his lady in doing to same before she ventured from the palace. Though inside the palace walls the women dressed in accordance to the customs of Christendom, when venturing into the city Sibylla had taken to veiling her face out of respect. The guard joined them at the stables, two mounts already saddled. As the head of the guard helped the princess onto her horse, Merlin accepted the hand of one of the stable boys. He was a nice boy, if a little simple, and quite obviously smitten with Merlin. The way he had taken pains to pronounce ‘Muirgheal’ correctly was very endearing. Nodding his thanks, Merlin guided the shaggy pony he had been given to ride into place behind Sibylla’s elegant Arabian.  
  
The city was a heaving mass of sweating, shouting people – as it always was. Merchants cried their wares and women haggled over the price of cloth and grain, swatting errant sons around the ear as they attempted to wander off. Sibylla’s guard cut a path through the people, the hilts of their swords flaring in the sun, providing ample warning to any who would dare approach the royal party. Merlin cast his gaze around the market place – its sights and smells as familiar to him now as those of Camelot. When he had first come to Jerusalem on the merchant ship, with the people who thought themselves his parents, he had found the splash of colour hard on his eyes. After three years in the city he had become accustomed to the gaudy mixture of colours favoured in the eastern lands.  
  
This market place had been the first place in the world Merlin had ever felt like a woman. All other times he was simply ‘Merlin’, his body rarely prominent in his thoughts. But in the  _souq_  he had become ‘Muirgheal’. Women in the Christian Quarter – where his merchant family were staying – walked with their faces bare, but that day Merlin had crossed a boundary he had not known existed and found himself lost amongst kohl rimmed eyes, framed by opaque cloth. His lack of veil had attracted attention that day – not all of it harmless. He had run, tripping over his own feet as he did so, all the way back to the inn – comments in a foreign tongue, but in a tone that was universal, echoing in his ears.   
  
Now he was just one of Sibylla’s waiting women, veiled – uninteresting and unimportant – beside the enigma that was the king’s sister. Merlin thought that perhaps it was Sibylla’s insistence on riding that reminded him of Morgana. The Lady could have been carried in a litter, hidden from the world by walls of silk; elegant and delicate like an ornamental flower. But Sibylla would not be treated as anything but the most powerful woman in Jerusalem. She followed her grandmother’s example and proclaimed herself men’s equal. She wielded position and power like a knife; a cutting edge to use for her husband’s advantage – and her own.   
  
Merlin let his mount pick its way daintily through the crowd and let his power wash over the market. When Arthur’s reign had ended and magic was once more driven from the realm, Merlin had learnt to hide his gifts. He had mastered the art of silent spells, of keeping his eyes lowered so the flash of gold would go unnoticed. Now, in a Kingdom marked by religion, his gifts could see him burnt alive. Idly he wondered how it was he always found himself in places where magic was decidedly unwelcome.   
  
The Earth greeted him like a long-lost companion. It sang with the rush of sun and life, the few plants that could grow in sand and heat turning their leaves to follow him as he passed. High on a wall, a vine began to bloom in welcome. Merlin hushed it silently – vines were very excitable.   
  
They turned a corner, to the thoroughfare that would lead them to the Christian Quarter when Merlin felt something flare in his mind. He could taste old magic on his tongue: the heady mix of steel and water accompanied by the memory of cool metal wreathed in fire. Sitting straighter in the saddle, Merlin attempted to see across the crowd. To the east, to the east, his mind whispered and Merlin turned his head accordingly. A darkened alley, a figure in a travel stained cloak, and on his hip, hilt worn and splendid, was  _Excalibur_.  
  
But why? Merlin’s thoughts buzzed with the question, so much so that he did not notice the riding party had come to a halt. Had one of the guards not reached out and pulled Merlin’s reigns he would have guided his mount straight into the Princess. The man glared at him, and Merlin ducked his head in apology. The guard grunted and released the reigns and Merlin turned his attention to Sibylla. Her gloved hands were knotted in her horse’s mane, and Merlin could see that the skin around her eyes had gone tight – whether from fear or fury it was impossible to say. Abruptly, Sibylla turned her horse and motioned for the party to travel back the way they had come. He strained to look over his shoulder, hoping to catch another glimpse of the man carrying Excalibur but the crowd made it impossible.   
  
“Her ladyship does not employ you to sit gawping at the rabble.” One of the guards barked, and Merlin jumped. About to offer a sharp retort, he remembered that Sibylla did not protect him as Arthur once had – the woman would do nothing should the guard take it upon himself to teach Merlin respect. Hunching in upon himself, Merlin played the part of the chastised maid and nudged his horse into step beside Sibylla’s. The Lady looked appalled that Merlin had ventured so close, but Merlin adopted his most cowed expression and made a show of glancing fearfully at the bustling crowd. Sibylla fortunately, accepted the feigned display of maidenly shyness and refrained from rebuke – but it was clear from her expression that she put little stock in idea of a  _maid_  having much virtue to defend.  
  
 **الجنة مملكة**  
  
Merlin carefully poured the wine as Sibylla and her husband ate their evening meal. He was not ashamed to admit that Guy de Lusignan made him nervous. The man had too much of a tendency to touch what was not his, and to place himself in beds where he was not welcome. Merlin wondered if this was a side effect of having married for power rather than love. Arthur had never strayed from his marriage vows – despite the pain such a decision had caused – and even Uther, from Gaius’ accounts, had remained faithful to Igraine whilst she was alive. Sibylla seemed to expect her husband to stray. She did not bat an eyelash when her husband took himself to another’s chambers. Merlin had once asked Arnaude if it was because Sibylla knew Guy could not put her aside; to lose Sibylla was to lose the king. But Arnaude had said no, that their mistress loved the lecherous brute. Watching Guy peer down another maid’s dress Merlin decided that either Sibylla was mad, or love was truly blind.  
  
“You must see the threat he poses.” Sibylla said, sipping delicately from the goblet Merlin had placed before her. “Balian of Ibelin is no minor noble – I don’t think I need to remind you that he is rear-vassal for the king in France.”  
  
Guy snorted. “Powerful he may be, my dear. But he is still just a man. And like all men he is susceptible to the charms of a pretty face.”   
  
Sibylla gave a delicate snort and lifted a date to her mouth. “And if he does not join our cause simply because I ask? If he allies himself with Raymond de Tripoli?”  
  
“Then land and money must talk where your charms have failed to do so. Balian is a younger son – his holdings are not is own, and those he keeps for his brother are small. Make him master in his own right and he will do whatever he can to keep the privilege.” Guy smiled sharply, and raised his goblet in a toast to his wife – a silent acknowledgment that it was through marriage to her that he had been raised to such heights in Jerusalem’s court.  
  
“I will visit him once I hear that he is settled at Ibelin.” At Guy’s raised eyebrow, she smiled, “A woman alone is less of a threat than one who brings her husband.”  
  
Guy laughed, and beckoned Merlin to bring more wine.  
  
 **الجنة مملكة**  
  
The road to Ibelin was hot and dry. Sibylla’s train was small by noble standards, but the horses hooves kicked up enough dust that Merlin was forced to wrap a scarf around his mouth and nose to prevent from coughing himself into fits. Woefully, he eyed the dust stained hem of Sibylla’s garments. It would take hours to remove the dirt and grime from the delicate fabric. Sunlight flashed across the harness of a guardsmen’s horse, and Merlin remembered a different march, a different group of soldiers and a different set of clothes from which he was forced to scrape the mud. He also remembered the teasing laughter, and the sword-callused hands that helped him with his work when there was no one watching. The horses thundered on, and Merlin wrenched himself from his memories, clutching the reigns tighter as he fought to keep his seat.   
  
They clattered into the courtyard amidst a cloud of the dust, and the clamour of children as they ran behind the train. Servants were scurrying around the atrium, yelling in the native tongue of the holy lands, and bowing in deference every time they passed by the riders. The men at arms paid the visitors no mind, their attention firmly fixed on the land beyond the walls.   
  
A steward came forward, extending his hand to help Sibylla from her horse and offering his apologies that his master was not able to greet her in person. Urgent business had had detained him but he would be with her shortly. Sibylla arched one carefully groomed eyebrow, and the steward hastily instructed that her highness be shown to her rooms. Merlin hurried after, snatching glimpses of the Baron’s home as he followed his mistress through the corridors. From the other maids’ whispers, Merlin could tell they were shocked the Baron had not been there to greet the Princess, but Merlin was simply curious as to what kind of a man dared to anger Sibylla.  
  
The corridor opened into a spacious room, decorated with rich wood panelling and the ornate tapestries woven by the women of the tribes that roamed the southern Levant. A bed, piled with pillows and strewn with silken covers was arrayed against one wall. The windows spilled warm, afternoon light across the floor and Merlin inhaled the scent of desert spices. Sibylla eyed the room with disinterest; though opulent and no doubt the best the Baron could provide it was still less than she was used to. Merlin curtseyed to the maids that handed him towels and a basin of water, and closed the door firmly in their faces. As he helped the Princess wash away the dust from her travels, Merlin heard the laughter of children outside, and snatches of song as people worked in the fields. The sorcerer mouthed the words along with them, smiling as the jaunty tune rose and fell on the breeze.   
  
As he laced the back of Sibylla’s gown with deft fingers, Merlin listened to the sound of the Princess’s breathing. He had learnt over the years to distinguish the woman’s moods by the way she breathed alone. Now, Sibylla’s breaths were shallow and quiet - a sign of thought tinged with deliberate intent. She stepped away sharply from Merlin as he finished lacing the gown, and swept towards the door without bothering to inform her maid of her intentions. Merlin quickly skirted past her to reach the handle first and held the door with deference as the Princess marched through. Glancing back into the room, Merlin thought he saw a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye but Sibylla’s determined progress through the halls of Ibelin prevented him from investigating further.  
  
 **الجنة مملكة**  
  
The steward showed Sibylla onto a wide, open terrace. Date palms fell away beneath them, and grapes wound their way through trellises running overhead. In the distance, Merlin fancied he could hear the waves crashing against the shore. Servants hastened to brings cushions and tables and Merlin assisted them in ensuring Sibylla was comfortable. The Princess had been seated for no more than a minute, and Merlin was returning to the doorway to collect a shade awning, when a man stepped through the archway. The afternoon sun shone off golden hair, giving a warm and liquid glow to skin that bore that beginning traces of a summer tan. The man’s eyes were in shade but Merlin knew that when he saw them they would be as blue as he had remembered.   
  
“Arthur.” He breathed, pulse fluttering wilding in his neck. The man started, seeming to see Merlin for the first time, and smiled.   
  
“I’m afraid not.” He said, tongue caressing the rolling French syllables. “I am Balian, master of this house. And what is your name, little one?” Merlin started at being addressed in such a manner and backed up a pace. Arthur followed, and in the light Merlin could see that there were deep lines around his eyes. The hair was beginning to fade to white around his temples, and though he still held himself with the firm confidence of a proven warrior, it was clear this man was no longer in his prime. Merlin’s mouth moved in an attempt to answer Arthur’s question, but no sound came out.  
  
“This is Muirgheal, my maid. Is it your usual custom, Lord Balian, to dally with servants whilst your guests are waiting?” Sibylla’s voice rang out from where Merlin was standing. The lady gazed at Arthur with an arch expression, though the corners of her lips were twisted in a teasing grin. Merlin instantly recognised the game that was about to be played. Ignoring the banter that passed between the two nobles, Merlin reached for a pitcher of iced wine and poured a goblet first for Sibylla and then for Arthur. His hand trembled slightly as he passed the glass across, but the knight paid no heed – his attention focused on Sibylla’s beauty and her smiling face.   
  
Merlin felt tears, hot and fierce, prick his eyes. His chest felt tight, and for a moment he thought he might collapse at his mistress’s feet. One of the other maids – a small, dark girl who walked with an awkward gait – shot him a nervous glance over the top of her veil. With an effort of will, Merlin shoved his broiling emotions aside. This was not Camelot, he reminded himself. This was Jerusalem – all the rules had changed.   
  
The sun began to set below the horizon, washing the desert plain in crimson light and carving hollows in the walls around the dais. Food was brought, trays piled high with meat and fish and rice; bowls of salted vegetables and sweet fruits crowding for space on the table set between the two nobles. Sibylla ate delicately, taking care to suck the honey from her fingers with each bite. Arthur barely touched the meal, his gazed focused almost solely on Sibylla. The Princess threw back her head to laugh, and Merlin watched as Arthur’s eyes traced the column of her throat. Darkness stole across the sky, plucking the remaining warmth of the day from the air as the moon danced upon the sea.   
  
A chill wind swept in from the west, and Sibylla rose. Merlin’s eyes haunted Arthur’s movements as he followed suit, bowing over the Princess’s hand and offering to escort her to her rooms. Sibylla smiled, all grace and coy reserve, placing her hand delicately on the knight’s forearm as he led them through the halls. Merlin trailed softly behind, keeping to the shadows, and chewing on the bitterness that had wormed its way up from his gut throughout the evening.   
  
Sibylla left Balian at the entrance to her quarters with a heated look and the silent reminder that her husband was far away in Jerusalem. Arthur smiled, lips following the same curve they had done five hundred years ago. Merlin’s arm trembled with the desire to reach out and trace his fingers across those lips. To find out if everything was as he remembered; if Arthur’s lower lip was still slightly more chapped than the upper; if the ridge of scar-tissue that had developed from years the Prince had spent chewing on the inside of his cheek was the same this time around.   
  
Balian left without even a glance in Merlin’s direction, and Merlin in turn was forced to follow Sibylla into her rooms. A servant in the Baron’s household had already been in to light the lamps, and their flickering glow was enough for Merlin to see by as he helped his mistress ready for the night. Sibylla seemed assured of her imminent triumph, her voice low as she crowed over a victory she had not yet obtained. As the Princess spoke of her plans to woo the Baron, Merlin held his tongue. For once in his life he felt no compunction to point out the many errors in Sibylla’s assumptions.  
  
 **الجنة مملكة**  
  
Merlin blinked awake to the sight of moonlight spilling across the floor of the servant’s quarters. Around him were the quiet rustle of sheets and the hushed breathing of the other serving women. Curious as to what had woken him, Merlin lay still, listening; trying to discern any sounds that could not be attributed to the nocturnal habits of the wildlife outside the walls. His mind ran over the events of the past week. Each day had seen Sibylla attempt to charm Balian; promises of titles, land and the future-queen’s favour all but being painted on the walls of the keep. Balian smiled, and bowed and complimented Merlin’s mistress with the charming ease of one bred at court. But Merlin noted with interest that when the Princess retired for the night, Balian made no attempt to linger in her presence or to prolong the evening’s entertainment. He seemed content to allow Sibylla her hours of his attention before he withdrew them for the night.   
  
Aware that he would not easily drift back into sleep, Merlin rolled from his pallet on the floor and tugged a rough, wool gown over his sleeping shift. He gave a half-hearted tug at the laces, before padding quietly from the room. His bare feet made no noise of the cold, stone floor. The barony was hushed but not silent. Men at arms patrolled along the walls and those returning to the sleeping halls after their hours of watch moved through the castle with soft steps. Merlin let a spell slip over his skin and watched as the guardsmen’s eyes slid over his form and away again without even the barest hint of recognition. Merlin wandered aimlessly through the castle, running his hands across the stones and listening to Ibelin tell him her stories.   
  
She was an ancient land. First fortified by the Roman's in the hopes of controlling Jerusalem’s seas. Ibelin told Merlin of soldiers marching across her soils; helms flashing in the desert sun, the capes of the centurions as scarlet as the plooms upon their heads. Pendragon-red. Merlin leant against the ledge of an arrow-slit window and traced the inlay of the Ibelin coat of arms: a shield the colour of sand, overlaid with the red cross of Christendom. The barons claimed it was the colour Christ’s blood spilled freely for the world. Merlin saw only the colours of his king upon a kingdom made of dust. Turning from the window, Merlin continued his journey down the hall. Ibelin would have talked to him the whole night if she could, but Merlin did not have the energy to listen to her tales. Too often they were carved from sand and blood. Ibelin did not mind; she knew nothing different. But occasionally Merlin longed to hear tales of life and love, not death. Tonight was one such night.   
  
Idly, with no particular thought as to where he was going, Merlin let his feet lead him down a corridor. A door was ajar and Merlin could see the flicker of candle-light coming from inside. Curious, he padded closer forward. A cat, one of the many that inhabited the keep, detached itself from the shadows and leapt into his path. Startled, Merlin stumbled to the side, tripping over the hem of his dress and knocking into the wood of the door. The door in question, burst inward coming to rest against the wall with a resounding crack.   
  
The room itself was richly furnished. Dark, smooth wood gleamed in the glow of the candlelight. Stacks of parchment and velum lay scattered across the table, sheltered from the wind that blew from the sea by heavy, embroidered tapestries. In the flickering light of the candles, it seemed to Merlin as thought the figures depicted there moved and careened. Knights of horseback flew into battle against men wielding pikes and battle-axes. The wide, green fields of France stretched into the distance, whilst on the horizon a castle descended into flame.   
  
Dragging his eyes away from the tapestries, Merlin allowed his gaze to settle on the room’s only occupant. The Baron Balian of Ibelin sat reclining behind his desk, wine goblet paused half-way to his lips, the right side of his face lost to shadow. Merlin stood, transfixed, watching the light shimmer off the beaten pewter of the glass. How familiar all this seemed, his lord sitting on a humble throne, surveying the matters of his kingdom.   
  
“It’s you,” Arthur said, lowering his goblet, and there was a smile in his voice that Merlin could hear without even looking at his face. “The pretty maid who cannot remember her own name.” The words were light, teasing, and something in Merlin’s heart clenched tightly.  
  
“My Lord A-Balian.” Merlin murmured, dipping a discreet courtesy. He hoped the other man had not notice the way he had stumbled over the name. Balian paused, looking at Merlin with a steady, unwavering gaze. Merlin blushed and dropped his chin to his chest. He heard the scrape of the chair as Balian pushed himself away from the desk, and the soft pad of well-worn boots against the floor. It was not until Balian's feet entered his field of vision, and a warm, calloused hand wrapped itself around his chin, that Merlin raised his gaze from the floor.   
  
“That’s not what you were going to say, was it?” Balian asked, keeping his hand cupped ever so lightly beneath Merlin's face. “You were going to call me Arthur – like you did the first time we met.” Merlin felt goose-pimples break out over his flesh. “It’s strange.” Balian continued. “But that name seems more my own on your lips than Balian did even from my mother's. You may call me Arthur, I think.”  
  
Merlin’s breath left him in a shuddering gasp. Arthur’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his chin. “Merle.” Arthur breathed. “That is what the other servants call you, is it not?”  
  
Merlin trembled, heart beating an ungainly rhythm beneath his breast. “Merlin.” He whispered, barely moving his lips. Arthur seemed not to hear him.  
  
“Merle.” He repeated and pressed his lips to Merlin's in a kiss.  
  
 **الجنة مملكة**  
  
Merlin hummed tonelessly to himself as he carried Sibylla's garments to the laundresses. In contrast to many crusader castles Merlin had visited whilst in service to the princess, here Muslim and Christian worked side by side. Merlin knew that in Reynard's castle, no man, woman or child bearing the mark of a Saracen was welcome within the walls. Here in Ibelin, there was no distinction. People were people. Maids who hid their faces behind dark veils, were treated the same as those who wore a crucifix around their necks. Sibylla was privately disdainful of the situation. Merlin found it refreshing. He listened idly as two of the girls chatted merrily in their native tongue. Many of the words were foreign to him, but he knew enough of the language to understand the gist of the conversation. They spoke of sweethearts and weddings. Much as the girls of Camelot had done, before the city had become no more than folktale mother’s told their children.   
  
They glanced up as Merlin entered; the one on the right falling silent as the other reached to take the clothing from Merlin's arms. Merlin offered them a wide smile only to receive a sidelong look in return. There was something in the girls’ eyes – a knowledge, and something almost like mocking censure – that had Merlin flushing and hastening from the room in a twisted flurry of skirts that almost spent him sprawling. He caught himself on the doorframe, blush deepening as a chorus of giggles erupted behind him. Marching down the hallways with as much dignity as he could muster, Merlin studiously avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. The weight of the steward’s contemplative gaze was almost as oppressive as the heat. But Merlin was a member of Sibylla’s household and whilst Balian might bed any woman he pleased, the steward was not in the same position – no matter how easy people now believed Muirgheal to be with her virtue. Fortunately for Merlin the servant’s gossip had not reached Sibylla’s ears. Merlin suspected the princess’ personal physician as the source of his protection. The man was a native of the lands to the east – where ancient Babylon had once stood. His ideas were not as strict as those of the Christians and he had often championed the maids who had opted to make their lives easier by capitulating to their master’s wishes. The women were not perfectly protected from gossip and rumours, but the words rarely reached the princess and the physician secured their continued employment when he was able. Merlin was grateful for the man’s presence now – it made his life easier.   
  
Slipping into Sibylla’s empty chambers, Merlin took a moment to collect himself. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel Arthur’s hands pressed along his body – a disjointed, double memory as he recalled those hands splayed flat upon his ribs and cupped around his breasts. He had been awkward, unsure – unable to move correctly in this body until Arthur had taken hold of his hips with bruising force and guided him. Afterwards, when the sweat had begun to cool, and the sheets hot and rasping against his bare skin, Merlin had padded from the bed, gathering his clothing and pulling them on, in quite haste. Arthur had stayed still upon his pillows, but Merlin had a feeling that the man had been awake and he was not sure what to make of the fact that Arthur had given no sign of the fact and had not called him back to bed.  
  
A bell resounded through the castle, and Merlin started. That bell rang daily to remind the Muslim population it was time for prayer, and to call the few Hospitallers, who for the moment made Ibelin their home, to Vespers. He had dallied longer than he should have done. Sybilla would be wanting to bathe before supper and she would not allow one of the Saracen maids who usually performed the service to touch her. Drying his eyes, cursing himself for the tears which had gathered there without his permission, Merlin composed himself as best he was able. This was a new age, a different life. All that remained was for him to find his way in the world.   
  
 **الجنة مملكة**  
  
It had been months since Merlin had last seen Arthur. Sybilla had returned to Jerusalem, leaving Arthur to care for Ibelin and guard the pilgrim road. Merlin was left with nothing more than the memory of sweat-slicked spicy sheets and the crease of Arthur’s crows’ feet beneath his finger tips. His melancholy had grated of Sybilla’s nerves and he had been whipped. Arnaude had helped him mend his dress. The guards had not bothered to strip him down to his shift before the beating commenced.   
  
Now Merlin, trapped within the role of Muirgheal, had been dragged to the dry and dusty mausoleum that was Kerak. Raynald’s castle was a monstrous thing. It squatted on the sands of the Levant like a dust-dry gargoyle – huge and winged and wide. The outer walls were stained brown with blood. Saracen bodies buffeted in the wind as sand-devils raced across the desert; suspended as they were with the noose still tied around their necks.   
  
Sybilla raised a hand to her face as they passed, looking as though she were about to be sick. But Merlin knew it was from the smell, and not from the injustice of the deaths.   
  
They were at Kerak six days before Balian arrived. Raynald swore and raged and would not have him inside the keep. Arthur camped in the courtyard with his men and Sybilla dispatched Merlin and a squire to attend him. She could do little else inside Raynald’s own walls, but the Baron of Ibelin had the favour of the king and Sybilla had sense enough to mirror the actions of her brother. Raynald fumed and spat but knew better than to try to curb Sybilla. Merlin knew he was simply biding his time. One day Guy would be king. And Guy hated Arthur with a vengeance.   
  
The castle lanterns had already been lit when Merlin carried food and wine to the Baron and his men. The weather-worn soldiers nodded at the serving maid who passed them but for the most part paid Merlin no mind. They saw enough to know most nights Merlin bedded with Arthur before returning to Sybilla in the castle.   
  
Pushing back the flap of the tent, Merlin ducked inside. Arthur was bent over a travelling desk, scratching away at some report or letter. Merlin left him to it. The food would stay warm until he was finished – a simple spell saw to that. Merlin pottered around – tidying the pile of Arthur’s armour and sword, straightening what meagre belongings he kept with him on the road: the bed roll, a spare tunic and cloak, the wax needed to keep leather supple in the desert’s dry heat.   
  
Warm arms snaked around his waist before Merlin had even registered the cessation of the scratch of the pen against the velum. Instinctively, Merlin sank into that heat. Arthur had taken to holding him like this, upon the battlements in Camelot; in those few fleeting weeks between Arthur’s coronation and his taking of Gwen as his queen. Merlin wrapped his fingers around knuckles warn and calloused with age. But beneath the rough and blistered skin, Merlin could feel the faintest shadow of a different hand – skin smooth and supple with youth, a silver ring wrapped around a finger, the small pockmark between Arthur’s thumb and forefinger from where a young falcon had bitten him.   
  
It was like seeing one’s reflection in a pond whilst still trying to see the rocks and weeds beneath. He let old hands unlace his dress, breathed in the scent of mail and sweat and could almost convince himself that this was his own youth once again. Arthur was different this time around. Merlin tried sometimes to make the pieces fit, but although he had a full array of chessmen on his board they were not all from the same set. The Arthur he had known was there in darts and hints, almost lost beneath the life that Balian had lived and muddied further still by the stagnant, smelling pool that was Jerusalem. It was bitter-sweet in many ways.  
  
Balian doused the candles but it was Arthur golden hair that was left shrouded in the wispy smoke. Merlin reached for him. And in the moment, nothing had changed. It was the same, favoured dance in different forms. Merlin still spread his thighs and slung a leg round his lord’s hips; still gasped his moans and listened to Arthur bite his lip and grunt through his release. He still dressed in darkness and left in haste. But this time, he left without whispered wishes and promises of things which could never be. Men and women had always been free to marry – even if they were a lord and a serving maid. Maybe the fact that Arthur did not say anything, did not even say goodbye, was a sign. There would be no need to say goodbye – if they were one day husband and wife.  
  
 **الجنة مملكة**  
  
The panicked clang of the alarm bell rang as Merlin was helping Sybilla change for the midday rest. On the walls soldiers were shouting, the crash of mail and weapons loud even in the princess’s private quarters. Sybilla, for a moment, looked terrified before dragging her façade around her once again. She nearly ran towards the rooftop of the keep. Raynard’s lady used it as an open-air solarium, enjoying the views in provided across all her husband’s lands – desert thought it was. Men at arms and knights were riding from the gate as Merlin cleared the doorway. The crest of Ibelin was at the fore – not a single man riding out was in the Châtillon green. Raynald himself was sat rotund and comfortable upon a reclining seat.   
  
“What has happened?” Sybilla demanded. “Why do none of your men ride out?”  
  
“A caravan has been attacked.” Reynald answered. “Balian insisted on protecting the pilgrims that might be travelling with them. I see no pilgrims and so I see no reason to waste time and men.”  
  
Sybilla stood white-lipped and tense, staring out at the gathering cloud on the horizon. Sparks of light flashed within the dust, motes of fire spinning across the horizon.   
  
“That is no raiding party, my lord. That is an army.” The squire who stood at Raynald’s elbow knew what Merlin had learnt from a lifetime of following Arthur into battle: that such a storm could not be caused by a mere twenty men. Two hundred knights – and more than four times that on foot could easily be hidden in the dust-cloud. If this was even a fraction of the Saracen army, it was still more than Kerak could withstand alone.   
  
“If it were an army,  _boy_. Jerusalem would have sent word.” Raynald’s sneer pushed the young man to silence but Merlin saw Sybilla sway ever so slightly. They had stopped at Kerak whilst on their way to Canaan, because Guy sought to favour his close friend. Sybilla had not told her brother of her plans. If he saw fit to leave Raynald vulnerable – as punishment for his violations of the Peace – then no word would have been sent. Help would still arrive – Raynald was not so out of favour with the court that Baldwin could justify not coming to his aid – but how quickly it would arrive was an altogether different matter.  
  
“Tripoli is within reaching distance.” Merlin murmured softly. “If my lady were to leave now, by one of the small, rear gates and travelled light we could move out of the army’s reach before they broached the walls of Kerak.”  
  
Sybilla said nothing, but her lips moved in minute calculation. At last she shook her head. Whatever politics were being played, she could not afford to leave. Merlin hovered at Sybilla’s side as the princess braced herself against the wall and watched the battlefield. Balian had but one hundred men taken from his own soldiers and Sybilla’s guard. It would not be enough. Letting is mumbling be mistaken for Celtic prayers, Merlin whispered the spell for far-seeing, snatching sound and images from the wind for none save his own eyes and ears.  
  
 **الجنة مملكة**  
  
The sun was hot, sand stung his lips and Merlin could feel the sweat dribble down Arthur’s chin as if it were his own. Horse muscles bunched and released beneath his thighs as Arthur’s charger pounded across the desert; men yelled with battle rage; the Saracan army was spreading, splitting, there were thousands of men. Merlin’s heart swelled, fear gripped his throat. There were too many; Arthur would be killed. Rough stone scored the skin of Merlin’s palms. Arthur raised his swore high. Bending, he kissed the cross-guard, his metaphorical crucifix. This was Merlin’s prince; his golden king – riding out at the front of his men, trusting in his faith, a different faith these days.   
  
Vaguely, Merlin was aware of Sybilla standing beside him; of Raynald and his lady drinking and eating as though the invading force was a banquet entertainment. The squire was still shifting from foot to foot, hand twitching towards the hilt of his sword with each flash of armour on the horizon. The crash, when it happened, nearly threw Merlin off his feet. He felt as Arthur’s sword met with that of a Saracan warrior’s; the man’s sloe-dark eyes sharp in a weathered face. Sparks flew, and beside Arthur one of his knights died – run through by a curved scimitar. Arthur shoved his shield into the face of the man before him down as a young boy in Christian colours swung his mace into another man’s head.   
  
The battle raged and Arthur’s men held longer than Merlin would have thought they could. Raynald at last called for muster on the walls, his wine-burst cheeks pallid as it dawned on him that these were no discontented army but Salahadin’s entire force. Merlin yelled, forgetting himself, as a man swathed in black brought a hilt down upon Arthur’s head. Sybilla slapped him for his panic and by the time Merlin had regained his senses, he had lost what images of the battle he had managed to collect. Fearful, Merlin cast peered desperately across the sand. The fighting men were nothing more than a cloud of dust but suddenly the squire gave a whooping cry.   
  
“My lord, my lord. Look. Jerusalem has come.” Merlin turned his head to see a great white cloud billowing on the horizon. Sybilla gave a sigh, relieved, and Merlin realised it was not a cloud, but great white standards bearing the red cross of Christ. A golden crucifix – over ten feet high – was carried at the front of the impending army. Horns blew from the wall as the men at arms of Kerak signalled their distress.   
  
There was a skirmish on the ground, and Merlin saw Salahadin’s men close ranks. They left the simple soldiers and the men at arms lying on the ground. But it was clear that whatever knights survived had been claimed as hostages. A ransom would be received soon enough. If Arthur was alive, his name would be delivered with the rest.  
  
Merlin followed Sybilla inside to help the lady prepare for her brother’s arrival. Raynald grovelled and squirmed, fully aware that Baldwin blamed this invasion on Templar raids conducted in Raynald’s name.   
  
The king was righteous in his fury, but it cost him greatly. He forced Raynald to give him the Kiss of Peace, presenting his leprous hand for Raynald’s lips. The lord gave the kiss, and was dealt a blow to the face in return. Blood dripped from Raynald’s cheek and Merlin saw his lady pale as she calculated the risk of infection. Still, the punishment was greater for Baldwin than Raynald. The king had not moved six paces before he collapsed into his physician’s arms. The ride to Kerak had drained him and his health was quickly fading. He would be carried back to Jerusalem on a litter. But still, the damage had been done. Merlin knew, it was now simply a question of waiting.  
  
 **الجنة مملكة**

Raynald was forced by Sybilla to pay the ransom demanded for every knight. To Merlin’s relief, Balian’s name was amongst them. He offered his services to the castle’s physician who, after a great discourse on the dangers of educating women, dispatched Merlin with a cloth and a bowl of herb-infused water to Balian’s chambers.   
  
He found the knight attempting to tend his own wound, still partly dressed in his armour and without the use of one hand. Tutting, Merlin quickly stripped him of mail, tunic, and shirt; pushing the man to the bed with little ceremony. Arthur made no fuss, simply wincing when Merlin probed the wound for grit and the beginnings of infection.  
  
Satisfied that the cut was showing no signs of putrification, Merlin pressed the cloth lightly to the wound. The pungent sting of cleansing oils scorched his nostrils, but Merlin ignored the sensation. “He could have killed you – that Saracen lord. I thought he would. What happened?”  
  
Arthur did not question how Merlin knew what had happened on the battlefield. He simply laid against his pallet and panted against the pain. “I knew him, at Damascus. When the King defeated Salahadin. I let him live. And so he did the same. We are equal in God’s eyes.”  
  
Merlin released a shuddering breath. It had been too close, this time. Next time, Arthur might not be so lucky.   
  
“I love you.” Merlin said abruptly. Arthur stared at him in surprise, blinking when Merlin pressed their lips together in a chaste kiss. “I love you. Do you love me, too?”   
  
Arthur tensed beside him and Merlin almost regretted asking. Arthur never had been comfortable discussing his feelings.  
  
Eventually he relaxed, gifting Merlin with a smile that was only a little strained around the edges. “Yes, Merle, I love you.” Merlin smiled and leaned up to kiss Arthur’s cheek.  
  
“Good. I love you too.” It bore repeating.  
  
“I know.”   
  
Merlin ignored the subtle edge to his lovers tone. It seemed this Arthur was even worse at discussing emotions than the original had been.  
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
That night, Merlin dreamed of Camelot.   
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
The sheets were raw and damp with sweat. Arthur’s hair was plastered to his heat. Sweat dripped from his nose to land on Merlin’s chin. He laughed, surprised and amused, Arthur cussing at him without heat and smiling all the while. Their fingers were laced together on the bed, pressed into the matting as they moved in a sloppy, sliding glide. Merlin’s hips were greasy with oil and it was smeared it glistening streaks across the back of Arthur’s thighs and between his cheeks.   
  
Arthur thrust, and Merlin groaned. It was almost too much – they had been at this too long. But it was glorious pain, a friction that would never be enough. Arthur kissed him, then. And there were too many teeth and their breath was sour to taste but it was perfect and Merlin never wanted it to end.   
  
Their rhythm increased, and Arthur pressed his mouth to Merlin’s neck. Whispered words of love and commitment and forever melting into sweat-soaked skin.   
  
“My King.” Merlin murmured. “My Once and Future King.”  
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
It was so easy, back in Jerusalem, to fall into the habits of old. Days blurred into nights and Merlin’s world shrunk to ‘Arthur’. Outside the chamber walls court factions raged. The kingdom was splitting in two as Baldwin lay dying. Arthur was at the king’s side more than he was in his chambers and Merlin was left to linger, charms flicking from his fingers as the room was cleaned, aired and tidied.   
  
He was careful – if only to give Arthur the room to deny – never to let him see the magic Merlin performed. He thought, perhaps, Arthur knew. There were moment, rare occasions, when Arthur would turn his head, sharply, and peer at Merlin as though trying to figure out what hid beneath guileless eyes and a servant’s garb.   
  
It was a risk – to dare to practice magic in the heart of Christendom. But each night, as Merlin lay in the circle of Arthur’s arms, he felt as though he could stand atop the central church and summon the greatest storm Jerusalem had ever seen and Arthur would raise his shield to protect them both from the Bishop’s wrath.   
  
He whispered as much, once, when Arthur was drifting into sleep. The man’s only reaction was to tighten his grip, looping his arm beneath Merlin’s breasts – a sensation which still through him from time to time – and pressing his nose into Merlin’s hair. Merlin sighed, content. He was home again.  
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
Baldwin died on the sixteenth day of March, in the year of our lord 1185. Sybilla’s young son was crowned three days later. The princess was his regent.   
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
Merlin found Arthur at his window. On the desk behind him lay the papers bequeathed to him by Baldwin. Picking one up, Merlin scanned its contents: a writ of arrest and execution for Guy de Lusignan. Merlin felt light headed. He scrabbled for the other documents. Marriage bans for Sybilla and Balian – the implicit acknowledgement that if the Baron of Ibelin wished it so, he would be king in Jerusalem should anything happen to the boy.   
  
Merlin replaced the velum on the table with a hand that shook.  
  
“Will you marry her?” he asked.   
  
It was no secret that Baldwin had hated Guy. He had set the board so that Arthur need only move and he could claim queen and checkmate king all in one move. But would Sybilla consent to be passed from man to man as though she were a pawn?  
  
“You are very impertinent for a servant Muirgheal.”  
  
Merlin said nothing.  
  
“I will try. Sybilla is already moving to remove Tripoli as Marshall of Jerusalem. If she succeeds then the warrant will never be enacted. I must move quickly. Whilst Raymond is still in position to aid me.”  
  
Merlin stifled a sob, shoulders quaking. It was happening again. To ensure the stability of a kingdom Arthur was throwing away what he really wanted. First with Gwen, because the people needed a queen. Now, with Sybilla – because Jerusalem needed a king who would keep the Peace. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t fate give them a chance? It wasn’t fair.   
  
Arthur turned. “Why are you crying? It is no great hardship – to marry a woman of Sybilla’s age and standing.”  
  
Merlin was finding it hard to breath. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You want to marry her?”  
  
“Of course. I have no wife of my own and a marriage to her will bring me wealth and prestige. I am just a younger son – and I have the chance to be a king.”  
  
Merlin gulped, great lungfuls of air that felt too humid and too hot. “I had thought – this time – I thought you might, might marry m–”   
  
Arthur laughed – cutting and cruel. “Marry you?  _Marry_  you? You’re a chambermaid, not a lady. Why, in the name of all that is holy would I marry _you_?”  
  
“You,” Merlin had to stop to keep his voice from breaking. “You said you loved me.”  
  
Balian sneered and an icy hand clawed at Merlin’s gut. “I would have said anything to keep you warming my bed, Merle. Though I don’t know if I needed to have tried quite so hard – you really were  _very_  agreeable.” He reached out to snag a hand around Merlin’s waist, but Merlin slapped the questing appendage away. The Baron sighed.   
  
“Very well. Have your snit. But don’t let this nonsense go to your head. I expect you in my chambers two days hence.” He left, and Merlin hunched down on the floor, crying. He had lived many lives as a servant - but he had never before felt more like a slave.  
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
Balian approached Sybilla. Sybilla would not have him. Raymond de Tripoli was stripped of his title and banished to his castle in Galilee for disrupting the court. It was a blow to Balian’s power. Raymond had been his main supporter and without him, Balian was left to face the vengeance of Guy alone. Balian scrambled for power, and found it in the widow of King Almeric I.   
  
They were married in a regal ceremony. Balian now shared his bed with Maria Komnene and Merlin had no place in it.  
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
They were serving date wine at the meal that night. Merlin caught sight of Balian over the jug he was carrying and promptly spilt the contents all over the floor. The smell was pungent, thick and sweet. The Baron was laughing at something his wife had said. Merlin felt violently sick.  
  
Arnaude found him retching his guts into the privy. Hushing softly, she lifted his hair out of his face and rubbed his back soothingly.   
  
“It was the date wine, wasn’t it?” She asked, helping Merlin to stand. “It had the same affect on Bernadette.” Merlin looked at Arnaude blearily.  
  
“I didn’t know Bernadette was ill.”   
  
Arnaude chuckled, but not as though anything was funny. “She was not. She was with child.”  
  
Merlin paled and felt his knees shake. Arnaude wrapped an arm around his waist.  
  
“When did you last bleed?” She asked quietly, casting a cautious glance over her shoulder as she spoke.  
  
Merlin’s mind was racing. “I haven’t – I don’t –” The truth was he had not even noticed that the monthly cycle that accompanied a woman’s body had stopped. He was unused to keeping track of such things. Arnaude seemed to take sympathy on him and with slow steps led him back to his pallet in the servants’ quarters.   
  
“Get some rest.” She instructed. “I will make your excuses.” Merlin nodded dumbly and lay back staring at the ceiling.   
  
He was female. Pregnant, with Arthur’s –  _Balian’s_  – child. He was sure Fate was laughing at him. He lay for hours on his pallet, wondering what he would do. The Baron had made his feelings very clear that afternoon in his chambers – he would never welcome a bastard child. Struggling, ignoring the way his eyes blurred with tears, Merlin laid a trembling hand upon his abdomen. His gaze flashed gold. He screamed as blood and thicker things poured hot and wet between his thighs – soaking his skirts and the sheets below. Dimly, he heard someone else’s scream mirror his own and then all went dark.  
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
Merlin opened his eyes to the solemn gaze of the lady’s personal physician. Beetle-black eyes, in a weathered face, scrutinised him for a moment before the man nodded and left. Merlin felt his heart clench at the memory of Gaius whose pale and wrinkled face still offered advice in his dreams sometimes.  
  
A stool scraped and Arnaude entered his field of vision.  
  
“Oh, Merle.” She sighed. Merlin felt tears well in his eyes. “Every night. You lay with Balian every night – did no one ever tell you this could happen?”  
  
Mutely, Merlin shook his head. There was no way he could explain that he simply hadn’t thought it would happen to him – had forgotten that the rules were different in female form. Arnaude took his hand between both her own and kissed it.   
  
“Perhaps it is for the best.”  
  
“Yes.” Merlin agreed his throat tight with pain and tears. “This is best.”  
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
He was scrubbing the floor of Sybilla’s private chapel when Balian found him.  
  
“I heard you lost the child.”   
  
Merlin froze. He did not want to have this conversation. Not now, not ever. He said nothing, returning his attention instead to the brush in his hand and the pale of water by his side.  
  
Balian knelt. And suddenly, he was back to being Arthur. It was Arthur’s eyes, not Balian’s that glared at him from beneath gray-laced brows. It was Arthur’s face that looked so very disappointed. His golden king, whose wife had cried herself to sleep when she could not bear a child; who had come to Merlin begging - pleading - for aid and whom Merlin had been forced to refuse, because he knew what price would be paid.   
  
“I will not insult you by asking if the child was mine.” Arthur said.   
  
Merlin did not reply.  
  
“I trust the babe was lost by natural means.” Arthur continued, “That you played no part in its death?” Merlin’s silence was answer enough. Within moments he found himself hauled upright and spun around – Arthur’s fierce and angry gaze fixed upon his face.  
  
“How could you murder my child?” He demanded, and Merlin instinctively attempted to recoil from Arthur’s rage.  
  
“I did not think you’d want a bastard.” Merlin ground out; writhing and twisting in an attempt to get away. He did not want to admit that he now constantly harboured a hollow, twisting ache; that he felt bereft and empty. After all, he had no one but himself to blame.  
  
Arthur let him ago abruptly, and Merlin dropped to the floor, legs unable to support him.  
  
“I may not have acknowledged the child.” Arthur acknowledged, “But I would not have denied it a chance at life.”  
  
Merlin struggled upright, feeling angry and betrayed and violated. He wanted to swear at Arthur, to curse him before all the ancient gods and this one. He wanted to scream that this was Arthur’s fault – that if he hadn’t been so selfish things would have been different. Different than they had once been.   
  
But there was no recognition in Balian’s gaze. He could not understand Merlin ire and in that moment Merlin wondered whether there was anything of his beloved Prince in Balian. Arthur never would have let a serving maid throw her life away pining for him; would never have risked getting her with child. Looking at the Baron of Ibelin, Merlin tried to convince himself that there was nothing of Arthur in this man’s face – that he had fooled himself. But he knew, knew that this was what Arthur would have looked like, had he lived. The greying hair, the creases by his eyes, the sagging skin just beneath his jaw –this was Arthur’s face. Merlin could not make sense of it.  
  
Balian left him there. Damp brush dripping dirty water to the floor, motes of dust spiralling in the humid air.   
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
Sybilla’s son was dead before the Feast of Corpus Christi. Balian tried to place his wife’s child as queen but Sybilla succeeded her son. And named Guy her King.  
  
Jerusalem was at war with Salahadin within the week.  
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
Merlin braced himself against the wall as the siege towers pounded the outer wall. Guy’s army – the army he had sent across miles of waterless desert – lay dead in the sand. Guy himself was captured and the Steward was still trying to gather funds to pay the ransom. Sybilla had fled, racing across the land to Tripoli and Balian had sent his wife and step-daughter with them. Those with the means had made for the sea, buying passage on whatever merchant ship would have them. It was like watching rats pour from the hull of a scuppered ship. But still, so many remained.  
  
The catacombs had become a refuge. Women and children huddled in the stinking dark – too full of the scent of blood and death and unwashed wounds. Merlin hurried from sick bed to sick bed, helping the physicians tend what wounds he could and giving ease to the dying. Brothers in black habits moved amongst the beds, offering the last rites to whoever needed them.  
  
A woman, hollow eyes and round bellied with child grabbed Merlin’s arm as he passed.   
  
“Do you know – my husband, he was fighting on the eastern wall –”   
  
Merlin shook his head and covered her hand with his own. She sagged and another woman, alike enough to be her sister, ducked to catch her. Merlin offered no apology – he had none left to give. Only seven of the men fighting on that front had survived.  
  
A man wearing the colours of Ibelin nursed a broken arm. Merlin offered him what little medicine they could spare but he shook his head, motioning towards a young boy Merlin recognised as the Bishops manservant. The boy stared at Merlin – William, Merlin remembered, his name was William – eyes wide and wild in his too pale face.   
  
“His lordship called us all to defend Jerusalem.” The boy whispered. He looked awed – as though to be communally addressed by the lord of Ibelin was as great an honour as being named a knight. “He called all men at arms, or capable of bearing them.”   
  
Merlin wiped his brow, eyebrows furrowing when the boy showed no reaction as Merlin probed the head-wound he’d sustained. “How many are left within the city walls?” Merlin asked, gently running fingers around the edge of the gash. The boy did not even flinch.  
  
“Enough that Salahadin we will be able to hold the walls. If we can last long enough to force the Saracen’s to offer terms and if the supplies we have hold, then we might yet survive.”  
  
“You have a good head for battle.” Merlin said. The boy smiled, pleased to be offered a compliment from a pretty maid. Merlin wondered idly what he would say if he knew Merlin still though himself a man. “Rest now.” He instructed. “You need sleep.”  
  
“But I want to fight. My lord said –”  
  
“You will be no good to anyone, if you fall on your sword from fatigue.” Merlin countered. “Sleep.”  
  
He stepped away, moving into the shadows before he quickly wiped his eyes. A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him. Merlin turned, shaking his head when he saw Balian.   
  
“How is he?”  
  
Merlin sighed, pushing a hand through his hair, veil long since discarded. “He feels no pain from the wound. He was personal attendant to the Bishop he would have been in close contact with the king and with his nephew after.”  
  
Balian closed his eyes. “He is a leper.”  
  
Merlin nodded. “The disease has not yet begun to show. There is no telling when he was infected. But he cannot be kept near the other patients.”   
  
Balian licked his lips. Brows drawn together in consideration. “Have him attend me in my chambers.”  
  
“My lord –” Merlin began, but he was cut off.  
  
“Have him attend me, Muirgheal.” The Baron’s eyes were sad. Merlin looked away.  
  
“As you wish, my lord.”  
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
They burned the bodies at sundown in the courtyard of the church. The Bishop railed at the men who lit the torches but Arthur stood firm. Disease would spread if the bodies were not destroyed and they could not bury them outside the city walls. Merlin shivered in the shadows as flames ate at the deceased. Men, boys – some so young. The stars seemed to dim as the bodies turned to dust. Women screamed for their husbands and sons, the wails growing louder and louder until they echoed through the city streets. Shrieks echoed in Merlin’s mind. Flames leapt from reaching, white walls; the Pendragon standard caught in the smoke, the golden dragon rearing to break free.   
  
A hospitaller recited prayers and all Merlin could see was Mordred standing there. The boy’s face was sharp and pinched with rage, arm raised as he bellowed curses. Morgana cackled on the walls and Gwen was screaming as they tore Lancelot’s dead body from her arms. The stench of burning flesh filled Merlin’s nose. He couldn’t breathe.   
  
A barrage hit the walls and Merlin dropped to his knees. It was night – the battle should have ceased – but men were calling for aid and the foundations of the city shook. Arthur. Merlin had to find him – before Mordred’s forces breached the walls. He ran, ignoring the yells and blows of men who tried to force him back. Where was Arthur? He needed to be with his king. He made it to the watch tower – deserted now; it’s keeper having raced to help with the defence.   
  
Merlin cast his gaze out across the land and for a moment nothing made sense. Where were the fields, the woods and village? Everything was a burnt and empty beach. It was gone – Albion had fallen. And then he remembered. This was no Camelot, this was Jerusalem. And Salahadin’s men had breached the outer wall.  
  
Merlin could see them now. The place where the lesser gate had been filled centuries before was swarming with Saracen men. They were pouring up the walls and down the streets like rats, a dark wave that consumed everything in its path. And by the citadel was Arthur. He had rallied men at the entrance to the catacombs keeping the invading army from finding the women and children sheltered there. Bloodlust consumed these men. Merlin knew, that Salahadin was not the devil Christendom portrayed him as – were this not war his men were no doubt no different from those Merlin had lived amongst, for years. But war changed all people. Those who would never raise their sword to a child would now slaughter at will – enraged beyond all reason and fuelled by the lunacy of fanatics who heralded this bloodshed as the will of god.   
  
Shuddering, Merlin raised his arms. The sun bled in his eyes as his power washed across the tide. The heavens opened. Clouds bloomed across the darkened sky, eclipsing all trace of natural light. The stars died, and the moon hid behind the rolls of thunder stampeding across the sky. Rain poured in sheets upon the armies. Cries of war were drowned beneath the torrent. Merlin had hoped that the rain would cool the battle; that Salahadin would call for a retreat but if anything the Saracen onslaught grew in strength and the Christian opposition joined it; both sides seeming to take the rain as a sign from God.   
  
Desperate, Merlin began to chant. Mordred had once used such a spell, to sway and hold the minds of his army when their fervour began to fade. Merlin had sworn he would never resort to such a violation but he understood now how Mordred might have felt compelled. He could not let this violence continue. Light began to gather at his finger tips, spreading across the armies. Here and there, men laid down their arms but too quickly were simply killed by other men. It was no use. There was something here which rivalled even Merlin’s power. These men were beyond his control.   
  
Exhausted, Merlin leant against the wall. Watching as the battle raged below. Perhaps his spell had some effect. Jerusalem’s men held their own until, eventually, Salahadin called for retreat.  
  
The city was left, smoking and ruined – it’s outer wall destroyed, but the inner one still standing. The church still tall and proud but stained with ash and fire. Men cheered their victory, but it was a hollow sound.   
  
A white flag was raised atop the Saracen army and Merlin watched, sick at heart as a Balian rode out to hear Salahadin’s terms. It would be simple enough: safe passage for every Christian soul within the walls and Jerusalem to be returned to Saracen control.   
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
The Exodus was swift. Women gathered what belongings they would save and joined their men – were they fortunate enough to have survived. Merlin joined a blacksmith and his family, helping care for the little ones as his wife road on a litter, behind. He would part company with them once they reached the sea; attempt to beg passage back to England. He was through with the lands in the East.   
  
He saw the Baron of Ibelin once – when a group of knights rode by on their way to Galilee. The man paused as though he might say something, but in the end he continued on, flicking a silver coin in Merlin’s direction as he passed. Merlin gave the coin to the blacksmith’s family.   
  
He never saw Balian again.  
  
الجنة مملكة  
  
Merlin looked at Fate as she sat peacefully by the lake – mural crown on her head and Fortune’s Wheel in her lap. He felt time-sore and worn. His reflection in the pool did not look like his own. He looked old.   
  
In the water, the ghost of Arthur stood beside him, running a hand softly over Merlin’s hair, pressing his lips to the skin of Merlin’s temple.   
  
“You knew this would happen, didn’t you?” Merlin accused. “You knew the pain this life would bring.”  
  
Fate smiled and set the Wheel spinning again. “You should not have weighted the dice, Merlin. There is a punishment, as you are well aware, for those who attempt to cheat Fate.”  
  
 **End.**


End file.
